


Before You Say Goodbye

by crossingwinter



Series: Not According to Plan [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble Series that is also part of a Series Series, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:03:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6515866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Podrick Payne goes under cover to determine whether Alayne Stone is actually Sansa Stark.</p><p>A drabble series that is also a part of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/441940">a series series</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 4/10/2016

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrioritiesSorted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrioritiesSorted/gifts).



> Posting this is tricky, since I'm writing as I go, but it's more than just writing as I go, it's writing out of order. When it came to bringing it over to AO3, I was confronted with two options about how to post:
> 
>  **option 1** : i insert new drabbles into the fic in the order in which they should be read, and chapter titles will be the date that i add them to the fic so people can, theoretically, keep track of what they’ve read.  
> ↳ pros: fic in order  
> ↳ cons: people reading in real time on ao3 will have to dig into the fic for new chapters, rather than just clicking to the end; probably confusion on their part, not to mention my own
> 
>  **option 2** : come up with some sort of vague numbering system where theoretically unwritten plot points can represent numbers from, let’s say, 1-100. that means that if i write scenes out of order, i can just number them and have it appear non-linearly.  
> ↳ pros: can just add chapters/drabbles in the order i write them and can easily indicate where they appear  
> ↳ cons: if i have something numbered 23, then write a 24, then write a scene between 23 and 24, i either have to go with a ridiculous decimal system or renumber all my chapters
> 
> At the moment, I'm opting for option #1, and planning to put links to the most recent chapter in the "end of fic" notes so people can get to them more easily, but we'll see how it goes. If it gets to be too much, I'll change it.
> 
> Please feel free to send along prompts--either in the comments section here or through the [askbox](http://planlessfic.tumblr.com/prompts) over on tumblr. I will do my best to answer them as I find inspiration.

They meet at a release party.  Not hers, or even Harry’s.  It’s a release party Anya Waynwood’s greatest hits album, and Anya had worked with father’s production team a few albums back, so Alayne and Petyr had found themselves invited.  

She sees him from across the room, and she knows him.  She obviously knows him.  He’s _Harry H._ Of course she’s going to know him.  He’s constantly at the top of the charts with his band, and he’s in most of the same magazines she ends up.  They even follow each other on Twitter, not, of course, that that means much.  

“Harry Hardyng’s here,” she murmurs to father, and he glances past her to where Harry’s joking around with his crew.

“You should introduce yourself,” he says simply.

Alayne glances at him.  Her father’s never been the type to encourage relationships that aren’t anything but professional, and she’s sure he’s already imagining just how many weeks at number one a collaboration between the pair of them would be.  But Alayne’s heart skips a beat as she walks towards him, head high and and shoulders back.   _Power pose_ , she remembers one dance instructor calling it, and she focuses on that and less on the fact that his blonde hair is spiked up and the exact same shade as Joffrey’s.

He catches sight of her as she crosses the room.  "Well, if it isn’t Alayne Stone!“ he says, smirking slightly.

"Harry,” she says, smiling and tilting her head.  His eyes flicker along her neck as he gives her a once over.

“Not quite as plastic as you look in the mags, are you?” he asks, and Alayne’s eyebrows shoot up.  If she weren’t a professional, she’s sure that she’d be blushing, embarrassed.  She knows some people think she’s fake– _they’re not wrong_ –but at least they never say it to her face.  But her face remains smooth, though she feels her expression cool.

“I meant that in a good way,” Harry says quickly.  "Of course I did, didn’t I, love?“  He throws an arm around her shoulder as if to show how warm he is.  

"Of course,” Alayne says, and she smiles up at him.   _You’re probably bitter that Choking went platinum before Anything For You did._ She can smile and pretend, though.  "And you’re not quite so spray tanned.“

His mates all "ooooh, burn!” at Harry, who _does_ flush. _  
_

_You see?_ Alayne thinks as she smiles up at him.   _I’m more than you think of me, Harry Hardyng._


	2. 4/10/2016

“So I don’t even have a plan?” Pod says.  He is sitting on the floor of the conference room, holding a beer between two hands, while Brienne and Sandor finish the pizza.  He’d stopped eating it about an hour ago.  They call it “pizza” here, but one slice is worth at least three slices of normal pizza, and he’d filled up ages ago.  Not Brienne or Sandor, though.  They are putting slices away as though that was some New Haven style thin-crust.  

“You do have a plan,” Brienne says, dabbing at her lips with a paper napkin.  “Your plan is to infiltrate.  We need eyes on the inside.”

“He’s one sneaky motherfucker,” Sandor says, mouth full of pizza.

“No shit,” Pod says a little dryly.  Sandor gives him a look.  “Sorry,” he says quickly.  “Just…you know.  Trying to…”

“Look, you can do this,” Brienne says encouragingly.  “I know it’ll be your first time under cover, but you’ll be fine.”

“Just be the usual bumbling idiot you are and no one will think twice if you let anything slip,” Sandor mutters.

Brienne kicks him under the table, and Pod took another sip of his beer.  “Remember,” she adds, “You’re not in this alone, even if we’re not on the ground with you.”

“And don’t fuck this up.”

“Clegane.”

Pod picks at the paper lining of the beer bottle, then gets to his feet and stretches.

“Right, well…I guess tomorrow’s it, right?” he asks.

“Yes,” Brienne said.  She gives him a smile.  It doesn’t help this time.  “You’ll do great.  I am sure of it.”

“And remember, if you fail, you’re leaving a young woman in the hands of her abducter and abuser while her family searches for her.”

“Thanks, Sandor.”

Pod drops the empty beer bottle into the recycling bin and grabs his coat, sweater, and hat.  He digs in his pockets for his gloves, and wraps the scarf around his face as he makes his way through the office, preparing himself for the wind—the wind which was the worst part—of the Chicago winds.


	3. 4/10/2016

 It’s funny to Pod–the way he doesn’t bungle this is to bungle it.

“Alayne!” Mya calls, waving her over.  “Someone I want you to meet.”

She’s shorter than he’d have thought.  Standing next to tiny movie stars, he’d always imagined her being well over six feet, and in heels as well to make her taller.  She’s not short–not by any means–but he’s been spending too much time with Brienne and Sandor to think that she’s _tall_.  He stares at her, trying to superimpose red on brown, and blue on green.  _She definitely looks like Catelyn Stark._

“Pod?” he hears Mya say.

“What?  Oh.  Sorry!  Hi.  Pod Payne.  Nice to meet you Al–Miss Stone.  An honor.  A pleasure.” 

Alayne–gives him a gentle smile, the sort that positively screams, _don’t worry, I’ve met tons of stunned fans before._ “You having a nice time?  Getting what you need?”

He’d completely missed Mya’s introduction of him while he’d been staring, which he decides is for the best as he blabbers.  “Yes.  Mya’s super helpful.  Answers all my questions.  Tells me stuff.  I…” his voice trails away and he takes a deep breath.  He’d done characters before, it’s part of being undercover, but why does he feel like he’s twelve again now?  “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Alayne nods, and smiles, and doesn’t know what to say for a moment before she seems to settle on something.  “Well, it’s good having you around.  I’m sure I’ll see you around, Pod,” and she strolls away, heading towards the studio where she’s been practicing new music for the past few days, according to Mya.

Pod watches her go, stares at her, memorizing her stride as best he can.  She’s confident, and walks with poise.  If there’s anything distressing to her, she doesn’t show it at all.

Mya bursts out laughing. 

“Was I that bad?” Pod asks sheepishly, feeling a blush rise to his face quite without his having to think of something embarrassing to put it there.

“You know, when you said you were one of Alayne’s fans, I didn’t realize _quite_ how much you meant by it,” Mya hoots.  She claps Pod on the shoulder.

“Pod the pain,” Pod says wryly.  He puts his face in his hands for dramatic effect, which only makes Mya laugh harder.  “Bungled it.”

But no–no he hadn’t bungled it.  He hadn’t bungled it at all.


	4. 4/10/2016

Rickon doesn’t like Alayne Stone.  She’s fine.  She’s…just a pop star.  Her music’s ok.  She seems nice.  But there’s something about her voice when she sings…it sounds a little too airy.

“You’re just a snob,” Bran tells him from the passenger seat of his car.  “You think everyone’s got to have a Broadway belt.”

“That’s because Broadway belts are _better_  than…” he mimic’s Alayne’s voice, high, sweet, a little…he can’t describe it, but he can make his voice sound like hers very easily, “When I dream of you, you’re my knight in shining armor.”

Bran laughs.  “You sound just like her.”

“Yeah.  I’m an actor.  I can _do_  that.”  

“No, but…just like her.  You should be in a talent show or something.  Dye your hair brown, stick in some green color contacts and pretend you’re Alayne Stone.  The boys’d eat you up.”

Rickon flushes.  Bran’s known for so long now, but still when he says it aloud he forgets that other people know now too.  

It’s August, and Rickon’s still waiting to see if he got cast in the school play, and Bran’s applying early to college, though he won’t say where because if Arya catches wind and it’s _not_  Harvard like her, she’ll drive down from Cambridge where she’s at preseason and make him change his mind.  For his birthday, Aunt Roslin got Bran two tickets to see Alayne Stone.  She was supposed to go with him–she _loves_  Alayne Stone–but she had to be at the hospital tonight because one of her patients took a turn for the worse, so it’s Rickon going instead because Uncle Edmure only listens to oldies.

When they get to Hartford, Rickon fetches Bran’s chair out of the trunk of the car and helps his brother get into it, then the two of them walk–he sometimes thinks of Bran’s wheeling as walking.  Bran’s been in that chair for so long now he can’t remember his brother walking for real.  Maybe he shouldn’t think of it that way.  But he knows Bran won’t care–towards the ticket taker.  There’s a huge crowd–mostly girls, some of whom give Rickon a one-over, and completely ignore Bran.  

“It’s funny because I’m the one actually _interested_ in girls,” Bran laughs, elbowing Rickon, who flushes again.  

“It’s not really funny,” Rickon says, and Bran gives him an appreciative look.  “Happy Birthday, you best be glad I love you this much.”

“Best brother a boy could hope for,” Bran says cheerily, and Rickon wonders if that’s true.  He barely remembers Robb, but he knows that Bran does.  He kind of looks like Robb in some of the old family photographs, the ones where mom and dad are still alive, and Sansa’s not missing.  

He can’t remember Sansa, really, either.

The seats don’t have the best view–not that Rickon really cares–and the concert hall is loud and excited as they wait for the show to start.  When the lights go dim, he hears the familiar opening chords of “Out for the Count” which was overplayed for _months_  on the radio and shrieks of excitement fill the hall.

She starts singing before she comes on stage and Rickon feels his jaw drop.  This–this isn’t airy, high, sweet-voiced Alayne Stone from her singles.  She’s belting, her voice high and clear and trumpetlike as she steps out onto the stage, dark hair pulled back into a tight pony tail.  She waves at the crowd as she begins to sing, and, in his complete state of shock, Rickon finds himself waving back.


	5. 4/10/2016

“What are you making, Alys?” Alayne asks.

Alys doesn’t answer.  Alys is three now, and still very mistrustful of Alayne.  She does her best not to let it get to her.  Harry says that Alys likes her, even if she’s not Cissy.  _Not mum!_ Alys had screeched the first time that Harry had brought her over from London and Alayne had gotten her a stuffed bear.  

Harry’s asleep now.  Harry will sleep forever if you let him, and it’s still early enough in Central Time that she can’t quite begrudge him the lie in, but Alys was still too young to try to fight her jetlag, so she’d been up for hours.  

It had been the sort of night where Alayne didn’t sleep well, so when she’d started hearing Alys pattering around the apartment, she’d climbed out of the bed and gone to try and play with her.

Her apartment is full of toys now, just in case Harry brought Alys when he visits.  It isn’t frequent a frequent occurrence, but Alayne still doesn’t want Alys to feel as though Alys will be completely bored while her father was visiting his girlfriend.  

“Alys?” she asks, and Alys looks at her.  She has the same blue eyes that Harry does, and the same stubborn expression when she’s being surly.  Undeniably Harry’s child.  Myranda says there are some fansites that theorize that it might all be a ruse, but Alayne…

“Castle,” Alys says and she grabs another lego.

“A castle?”

“Yes.”  

“What’s it called?”  Alys looks at her mistrustfully, and doesn’t reply.  Alayne digs around in the box and finds Alys some more red bricklets, which Alys forgoes for the white.  

She hears the front door of the apartment open and gets to her feet.

“Good morning,” her father says.  He’s carrying a large cup of Starbucks in his hand, which he hands to her, before shrugging off his coat and toeing off his boots.

“Did you not get one?” she asks.

“Already had mine,” he says.  

“Thank you,” she says, and he tilts his head.  She gives him a kiss on the cheek.

“He brought Alys this time?” her father says.  His green eyes are on the girl in the living room.  

Alayne nods.  Petyr’s eyes are tight and unreadable.  He likes Harry.  She thinks?  He certainly thinks that Harry’s good for her career, which she supposes is good enough.  But he gets a strange look on his face whenever Alys comes up, and Alayne doesn’t know what to make of it.  

Maybe it’s just that he doesn’t know what to make of children.  He’s said as much many times.  “ _You were special_ ,” he’d promised her, pressing her nose affectionately.  

“Hello Alys,” he says, going towards the living room while Alayne drinks her coffee.  It’s not until the hot liquid is inside her that it hits her how tired she was from her sleepless night.  “What are you– _motherfu–of god!”_

Alys looks at him as he yells, then starts to cry.

“Alys,” Alayne says, putting the cup of coffee down, and hurrying over to the girl, but Alys is already fleeing towards the bedroom where her father is asleep.

“Fucking what the–” Petyr’s saying under his breath, standing on one foot now.  He pulls a tiny white bricklet out of his foot.  “See?  This is why I don’t like kids.  Leave their shit everywhere.  That fucking hurt.”

“Do you need ice?” Alayne asks.

Her father looks at her out of the corner of his eye, then shakes his head.  “No.  No I’ll be fine…”  He looks around the room.  “I’m not coming in here until she’s gone, though.  That’s a pain I never want to repeat.”


	6. 4/10/2016

“Alayne Stone’s not even a real person.  She’s like a barbie doll who can’t sing.  Totally fake.”  Alayne’s voice is neutral, her face betrays no sign of upset, nothing, and Pod glances between Mya’s camera and the one from the show.  The producer is trying not to look woefully disappointed.  The whole point of “celebrities reading mean tweets about themselves” is that the tweet is supposed to garner some reaction, isn’t it?  

“That it?” Alayne asks politely, and the producer shifts uncomfortably.  No, Pod can see.  That’s not it.  He wanted her to look upset, to be hurt.  But before he replies, Alayne steps out of the shot and waves to him.

“Thanks,” the producer sputters, and Mya snorts, shutting the camera off.

“You’re not upset?” Pod asks Alayne as they leave the studio, grabbing coats and hats and gloves to protect them from the icy wind outside.

Alayne shrugs.  “Not really.  I mean.  There is an Alayne Stone Barbie Doll, so it’s not like they are wrong on that front… though they are wrong about my not being able to sing, but it’s not my problem that they haven’t got taste.”  

“Yeah, but what about you being fake?” Pod asks, watching her closely.

Alayne glances at him, straightening her scarf over her face.  He can only see her eyes–green and guarded.  Green where they should be blue.  “Doesn’t hit me where it hurts,” she shrugs, and he can’t make out her face anymore behind the thick wool of the scarf.  Her voice is muffled.

“What does hit you where it hurts, then?  What should he have picked as a tweet?”

Alayne’s eyebrows rise.  

“Sorry,” Pod says quickly.  “Wasn’t thinking–that was rude–I mean…sorry.”

“No,” Alayne says quietly.  “No it’s fine.  No one’s ever asked me that before is all.”

She doesn’t answer his question though before Mya comes over and says that their car is out front.  She does keep watching him, and Pod…Pod keeps watching her. 


	7. 4/27/2016

It’s past midnight, and it’s quiet in the common room.  Arya’s eyes are starting to go blurry.  There’s only so many times you can edit a paper before your eyes roll into the back of your head and sink down into your stomach, right?  That’s what she tells herself, anyway.  _Only three more pages_ , she thinks.  _Only three more_.  But she’s read the same line six times, and can’t remember what she’s even arguing anymore.  

Her computer makes a noise at her and she switches to her gmail.  

“What the fuck’s this?” she asks Hot Pie.

“Just read it,” he says.

She clicks the link which takes her to Buzzfeed.  _You won’t believe this conspiracy theory about Alayne Stone._

“I don’t even listen to Alayne Stone,” she says.  That’s Bran who does. 

“Just read it, ok?” Hot Pie says, and Arya scrolls down, and reads aloud,

“There’s some people on Youtube who think that Alayne Stone is Sansa Stark, a high-profile missing person’s case that’s over a decade old.”  Arya snorts.  “Jesus Christ, youtube conspiracy theories.”

The Buzzfeed author has placed a picture of smiling Sansa next to a tumblr gif of Alayne smiling in one of her music videos.  _She does look kind of like some old photographs of mom,_ Arya thinks, _But her eyes are the wrong color._ No one in her family has green eyes.  Not even close.  Grey and blue, but not green.

“Someone needs to get their head checked, I think,” she says, and copies the link out of her gchat and texts it to Bran.

A few minutes later, her phone buzzes.  _Bran shouldn’t be awake_ , she thinks, but he’s only barely replied.  :-P  _God, if only._

Arya rolls her eyes and turns her attention back to….her eyes go crossed for a moment.  Nope, that’s a sign.  She can’t even remember what she’s writing about.  She’s going to bed.


	8. 4/10/2016

Pod stumbles and spills his coffee everywhere, and Myranda laughs.  “I thought you’d get less clumsy as you got less nervous,” she says, reaching over to the countertop and chucking a roll of paper towels at him.  Pod grimaces.

“I wish,” he mutters.  

“You ok?” Alayne asks.  He’s covered in coffee, and he’s plucking his blue t-shirt away from his skin.  

“Yeah.  Just stained,” he sighs.  He crouches down to pick up the shattered mug, and to wipe up the coffee with some paper towels.

Alayne crouches down next to him and rips up some paper towels as well.  “If it’s any consolation, I face planted on my first concert ever,” she says.  She tries not to think about that concert.  But that’s for other reasons.

“Really?” Pod asks.  He half-smiles.  “What happened?”

She should have expected that, and flushes.  _I thought I saw my father in the crowd_ she wants to say.  It had just been the lights, she’d told herself later.  The bright stage lights will make anyone with a long face look like what she remembered of Ned Stark.  She remembers words coming out of her mouth, and singing, and her fingers on piano keys moving through well-practiced progressions, but the actual performance…she doesn’t really remember it at all.

“Alayne?”

“My heels got stuck in the floorboards,” she says.  “It was on this old wooden stage, and I thought I was going to be _all_ grown up and wear stilettos,” she shudders and smiles at him.  “My father was worried I’d broken my nose, but I was fine.”

“Someone as graceful as you doesn’t trip up easy.”  Pod sounds jealous.  Alayne shrugs.  

“Happens to everyone at some point,” she says.  She feels chilly, she feels her stomach twist the way it does whenever she thinks of Ned Stark, and scared little Sansa, all alone.  _No.  Stop it.  You mustn’t._

She looks at Pod.  His face is all sweet.  “Do you need a t-shirt?” she asks, glancing at his stained one.  “I probably have one of Harry’s you could borrow.”

A conflicted expression flits across his face, and she does her best to ignore it.  _It’s all right that he doesn’t like Harry.  Not everyone has to like Harry._ It would be easier if he did, though.  She feels like Pod not liking someone is a condemnation.

“Sure,” he says at last.  “Thanks.”  

She leads him upstairs to her bedroom and pulls out one of Harry’s old shirts.  It’s too big for her, and she’s taken to wearing it as a sleeping shirt, and she tosses it to Pod before leaving the room.  As she closes the door, she catches a glimpse of him stripping off his t-shirt and feels her eyebrows raise.  She’d not expected the six-pack from bumbling, sweet, kind Podrick.


	9. 4/10/2016

_probably won’t make it in tonight.  just was invited to a party by michael redfort.  don’t worry–i’ll be thinking of you._

Alayne rereads the text message three times, and tries to ignore that sinking feeling in her stomach.  “He’s not coming,” she tells Myranda, who looks up from her laptop.  

“Oh?” 

“Yeah.”

Myranda doesn’t say anything, and Alayne can tell she’s pleased.  She is happiest when Harry’s not around.  Though this will probably mean some photos in the magazines of Harry out and about in New York, wondering why Alayne’s not with him if he’s stateside.   _Because Alayne doesn’t like New York._  It reminds her of someone she isn’t.And gives her a headache.

She hopes that this time, at least, there won’t be photos of him with some blonde girl on his arm, speculating that he’s cheating on her.  

Her fingers hover over her phone screen.

 _will you be out tomorrow, then?_ she wants to ask, but she knows Harry will blow off that text.  He always does.  So instead, she types _oh.  that’s too bad.  have fun tho. xoxo_

It’s how Alayne finds herself alone in her condo at 9pm, wishing she could find a show on netflix that would carry her into the next day.  But she’s antsy.  She looks at her phone, scrolls through twitter and tries to see some sign of Harry.  But she can’t.   _No,_ she thinks.   _Don’t do this to yourself.  It’s not worth it._ She closes the app, and feels her face crumple.   _I’m alone_. _I’m alone._

She could go out dancing–text Mya or Myranda, or just go to some bar and down a few whiskeys.  But she’s sure Myranda’s busy, and Mya never replies to texts in the evening, and the idea of drinking whiskey on her own is just as unappealing as thinking about what Harry is doing without her right now.

Her fingers hover over her phone for a moment, then she texts Pod.

_You doing anything tonight?_

Almost immediately, she sees the little bubble appear that indicates that he’s typing, but it takes a few moments before the reply comes across.   _Trying not to bumble in his text_ , she thinks fondly.

_Not really.  Trying to decide if I should watch Battlestar Galactica the way Mya’s always telling me to._

_Want to do something?_ she asks.

 _You’re dating someone,_ she thinks.   _You shouldn’t be suggesting doing something with another guy._ But she’s alone, and she hates being alone.

_I think yours and my budget for an evening out don’t look anything alike._

It’s such an honest answer that Alayne’s heart swells, for all she feels suddenly guilty.   _We could watch Battlestar Galactica together_ , she suggests.

_That I could do.  I’ll come over?_

_Sure.  See you soon._

She exhales, and stares at her phone for a moment.  Then she flips it over and goes to see if she has any popcorn in the house.


	10. 4/27/2016

Pod’s staring at his phone and he almost walks straight into Myranda as he is coming out of the bathroom.  “Woah.  Sorry,” he says, his phone slipping out of his hand and…and of course it lands in her cleavage.  Myranda’s shorter than he is, and very curvy, and his hand twitches while he waits for her to hand the phone back to him.

“Sorry.  Didn’t see you. Thanks,” he says, and he makes to move around her, but Myranda grabs him by the arm.

“Whatever it is you’re doing, stop it now.”

Pod blinks.  He doesn’t even know how to respond to that.  “What do you mean?  What I’m–”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”  Her voice is hard.

“I don’t–is this about yesterday, because if so, I already–”

“It’s not about yesterday.  You know it.”  Her voice drips with derision, and Pod remembers Mya saying _She’s all smiles and laughs but don’t cross her.  She’s brutal.  
_

“Then I don’t–”

“You’re spending time with her, and you should know better than to do that.  She’s taken.”

Pod freezes, his head whirling.  _She doesn’t know,_ beats out _Is she saying…_ by just a second.  “We’re friends, Myranda.  I know she’s dating Harry.”

“Do you?  Because  you’re spending a lot of time with her.”

“Friends spend time together.”

“Oh please.”

“And guys and girls can be just friends.”

“You’re lying in wait, you prick.”

“I am _not_ ,” Pod insists, his voice squeaking.  He’s not.  He can’t be.

“I don’t believe you.  And you had better keep your distance.  I don’t want you all up in her mind and all over her fucking album.”

“All over her album?”  But Myranda’s let go of him and has already flounced off, determined to have had the last word.  

_All over her album?_ He remembers Alayne humming, her fingers drumming against the table during lunch, a quiet smile on her face.  _I’ve got a new song in mind_ , she’d told him.

His stomach lurches and he thinks he’s going to be sick.


	11. 4/10/2016

“I don’t know,” Pod’s voice is clipped.  “I don’t know.  I don’t have anything to back it up.  There are no hard facts.  Period.”

“But you’re still sure.”  Brienne sounds tired.  They are all tired.  They’ve been sitting here for the past three hours, and they’ve made no headway.  None.  

“Yes,” Pod says.

“Because the little bird got a look on her face when talking about her mother,” Sandor snorts.  “Maybe she’s a bad liar.”

“No–it wasn’t a lie,” Pod says.  “Look, whenever she talks about Pansy Stone,” He jabs at the manila folder that’s full of Pansy Stone’s information–her birth and death certificate, even proof of some hospital visits she’d made while pregnant at the right time for her to be Alayne Stone’s mother.  “She gets this look on her face.  Like she’s in a war zone, or something.  Her face gets hard, her voice gets hard.  Like you’d better not ask her questions about it. A ‘you can’t handle the truth’ kind of thing.  Every time.”

“Of course.  If her mother was abusive–”

“But this time,” Pod hates talking over Brienne.  Hates it.  Brienne gets talked over enough by Sandor, but he wasn’t done with his point, and he knows what Brienne’s going to say.  “Her voice was soft, her face was soft.  She was remembering getting ice cream and playing dress up and she never remembers anything good about Pansy Stone.”

“So you’re running off a hunch,” Sandor says.

“Instinct,” Brienne corrects.

“Hunch.  Instinct.  Whatever.  This case explodes if we do it wrong, and do you really want Lannister up our ass about it?”

“I _know_ that,” Brienne says at the same time Pod says, “Look–I’m still working on it, ok?  I am.”

“Yeah,” Sandor snorts.  “You are.”

Pod glares at him.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You get all starry-eyed whenever you talk about her.  You think she’s some damsel in distress who’ll fall into your arms when you rescue her?”

“Do you?” Pod snaps.  “That’s the first time anyone’s brought that up, Sandor.”

Sandor starts to growl, leaning forward in his seat.  “All right,” Brienne says.  “I’m calling it done for the day.  Meet up again tomorrow afternoon.”

“Can’t,” Pod says.  “Told Alayne I’d meet her after she’s finished her studio time.”

Sandor gives him a look.  _Shut up_ , Pod thinks angrily.  _Shut up shut up shut up._ He doesn’t like it when Sandor’s like this.  Or rather, he doesn’t like it when Sandor’s like this with him.  Sandor’s got an eye for this shit.  _I know, all right?_ he wants to yell.  _I know I care too much._

 _“Sometimes I still remember putting on her dresses and jewelry and she’d tell me I was more beautiful than she could ever be,”_ Alayne had said.  No.  Not Alayne.

**Author's Note:**

> Most recent chapters can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6515866/chapters/15268693) and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6515866/chapters/15268723).


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